


Proper Form

by Piinutbutter



Category: Hylics (Video Game)
Genre: Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28092426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piinutbutter/pseuds/Piinutbutter
Summary: Dedusmuln begins the process of transforming from a meek scholar to a sword-wielding adventurer. Not without some help, of course.
Relationships: Dedusmuln/Pongorma (Hylics)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Proper Form

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mr_DeBlob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_DeBlob/gifts).



“Wait for it.”

Dedusmuln waited.

“Keep waiting.”

Dedusmuln kept waiting.

“Aaaand...there he goes.”

Like clockwork, the shine of slick black leather washed up on the shore of the afterlife, and Wayne along with it.

“How many times is that now?” Dedusmuln asked, watching in amusement as Wayne flopped onto his back and spit out the salt water lingering in him.

“Four,” Pongorma answered.

“And you’re not worried? I’m beginning to get a little concerned.”

He and Pongorma were perched on a tower at the highest ridge of the afterlife. From this vantage point, Wayne couldn’t see them. They watched as Wayne, undeterred, stomped back up to the teleportation pool and returned, presumably, to the house he was in the process of building.

“Were he being slayed in battle, I would be more upset. As it is, I have no sympathy for a man who cannot make it through a construction project without mishaps.”

Behind his tentacles, Dedusmuln laughed.

They had downtime until Wayne inevitably met with some other ladder-related misfortune. Dedusmuln turned to his companion.

Pongorma sat cross-legged, his hands folded in his lap. He’d shed the bulky armor he’d worn during their venture to defeat Gibby, and was clad in lighter garments that still - he assured Dedusmuln - offered sufficient protection. It was interesting to see him in this manner. He was still clearly a warrior; the clay of his body was shaped in thick, ropey strands. But he looked more...tangible, these days. Less and less like the mythical, locked-away dread knight Dedusmuln had heard tales about on his travels. The man before him was no myth.

“Were you...meditating?” Dedusmuln asked. “When I arrived?”

Dedusmuln had heard of such practices in some of his ancient tomes. In the old times, physical proxies of the era’s sages would sit and focus in certain manners in order to strengthen their own will.

Pongorma nodded. “I picked up the habit over my years of solitude. I find it helps me still.”

Dedusmuln sat with his legs tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around them and tentacles resting on his knees. He unfurled himself and mimicked his friend’s position.

“I’m aware my research on the matter is lacking,” Dedusmuln said, “but I associated this practice with idle professions. To see a knight using it...how fascinating!”

An amused huff came from Pongorma’s broad snout. “I fail to see how it’s any different from resting in a bed. Besides, I am more than just ‘a knight.’ There is a man holding my sword, made of flesh and clay. Am I another species to you?”

“Oh!” The tips of Dedusmuln’s tentacles knotted at the crest of his head, deeply ashamed. “I apologize! I wasn’t...I didn’t mean to imply...”

Pongorma rested a hand on Dedusmuln’s knee. “It’s alright. I was only joking with you.”

Something told Dedusmuln that wasn’t true. But he accepted the pardon with gratitude.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the waves of the afterlife and the occasional wet slap of fish wriggling their way up and down the stairs. Pongorma eventually spoke.

“And what have you been up to since we last met?”

“Well...” Dedusmuln reached into his travel bag and withdrew a rusted shortsword, sheathed in a leather casing. “It embarrasses me somewhat to say this in front of someone so skilled in combat, but I’ve been studying the preserved fighting techniques of our ancestors. There were so _many_ disciplines, it seems. It’s difficult to single out one that would suit me.”

Pongorma stared at the sword in Dedusmuln’s hands. “I don’t understand. You say you’re studying the arts of combat, but you were a perfectly capable ally on our journey. Your gestures were invaluable in fortifying and healing us.”

Dedusmuln twirled his hand, idly practicing the motions of Mystic Meat without the will to execute the gesture itself. “Thank you. Fortifying and healing, yes, perhaps I am skilled enough to help in that manner. But, I am not like you, or Somsnosa, or Wayne.”

As if summoned, a string of colorful cursing hailed a new death for their friend.

“We really should help him,” Dedusmuln said.

“In a moment. Finish what you were saying.”

Dedusmuln sighed. “What I mean to say is: I’m not strong enough to journey on my own. Though I think myself an explorer, I cannot truly fight and defend myself. Ask Wayne! When he found me, I was cowering in my excavation site, surrounded by Cone Cultists and Fleshstaches whom I stood no chance against. If he - if you all - hadn’t come along, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Pongorma considered the shabby sword in the archaeologist’s hands with a pensive grunt. “I see. Though I must repeat to you that your skills were and are invaluable to me...”

He laid his own hand on one of Dedusmuln’s, curling their combined fingers around the sword’s hilt.

“If you wish to learn the arts of a knight, I suppose I could teach you.”

Dedusmuln’s entire countenance lit up with delight. His tentacles wiggled in excitement as he began, “Pongorma! Thank-”

“You guys! When did you get here?”

Startled, Dedusmuln turned to see Wayne staring up at them, hands on his hips.

“Well,” Wayne continued, “Whatever. Come help me with the new house!”

Dedusmuln untangled his grip from Pongorma’s, tucking the sword back into his bag. Pongorma called down to Wayne, “I’ll only help you if you take my feedback about the name.”

“What do you mean?” Wayne scoffed. “‘Waynehouse’ is a perfectly good name!”

Pongorma shook his head. Dedusmuln couldn’t hide his snickering. They both climbed down to join their companion anyway.

* * *

“Wrong!” Pongorma snapped. “Back to your starting position. Again, this time with _intent!_ Your foe will have no patience for a strike that isn’t meant to kill.”

Dedusmuln stumbled back a few steps. He wasn’t accustomed to wielding a sword in the first place, and the brawn-based fighting style Pongorma’s legion had specialized in was hard to pick up. He was exhausted, but he didn’t want to ask for a break. Pongorma was taking time out of his day to train him specially. It wouldn’t do to waste more of his time.

With the moon gone, telling the hour was difficult. He wasn’t sure how long he trained for. Pongorma was drilling the correct form for a jab into him when a pair of juice boxes came flying in their direction.

Dedusmuln dropped his sword and managed to catch one box. The other bounced off of Pongorma’s head and fell to the sand.

Dedusmuln tried not to laugh at the stunned expression on the knight’s face. He really did.

“Give it a rest, you two!” Wayne called from the door of his half-built home. “You’ve been at it all day! Dedusmuln’s gonna melt at this rate!”

“I’m fine!” Dedusmuln called back. He did, however, stick a straw inside the juice box and drain the whole thing in one long sip. Maybe he was more worn-out than he’d thought.

Pongorma retrieved his box from the sand with a glare at Wayne. The resentment didn’t stop him from cracking into it. He finished the juice, crumpled the box up, and tossed it aside. He looked as if he was going to order Dedusmuln to start jabbing again, but he took a closer look at his exhausted companion and hesitated.

“Do you need to rest?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I _need_ to,” Dedusmuln admitted, “But I would like to.”

Pongorma nodded, waving his hand to indicate a break in their session. “I apologize. It’s been a long, long time since I took someone under my wing.”

By the end of the sentence, he sounded almost wistful. Dedusmuln debated if prying further would be insensitive. In the end, his relentless curiosity won out.

“Did you mentor your fellow knights?”

Dedusmuln sat in the sand. Pongorma followed suit.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “The younger ones. The ones with their clay still fresh and their sword arms undisciplined. I must remind myself that you aren’t a part of any legion. I shouldn’t be so harsh on you.”

Dedusmuln’s tentacles waved in a negative motion. “It’s alright! I requested this. I’m deeply grateful for your help.”

Pongorma turned his head away for a moment, watching a particularly large wave roll in on the shore. Dedusmuln wondered if Wayne hadn’t built his new place just a tad too close to the water.

“You know something?” Pongorma muttered. “You’re strong. Maybe not yet in flesh, but certainly in will - which is the more important of the two. I think, had you lived in the era when I was great, you could have been a wonderful knight.”

Pongorma turned back to face him. He was smiling.

Though the compliment flustered him, Dedusmuln was more focused on another aspect of Pongorma’s words. He scooted closer to the knight, poking his shoulder. “What’s with all this ‘when I was great’ nonsense? You haven’t devalued with time, Pongorma. You _are_ great.”

He wasn’t used to seeing Pongorma act modest. But there he was, bowing his head and staring at the sand rather than meeting Dedusmuln’s gaze. His smile was still there, though - if anything, it was wider.

“Then I suppose you still have time to become a great knight.”

“Of course I do!” Dedusmuln climbed to his feet. He ignored the soreness in his limbs, and offered a hand to his companion. “So make me one.”

Pongorma took it. “As you wish.”


End file.
